


Red Coat, Royal Blue

by wifebeast__s



Category: Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Smut, Very little foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifebeast__s/pseuds/wifebeast__s
Summary: In Aurora, the Princess of Bowerstone, Hero of Brightwall, comes to Ben the night after she wakes from the nightmare. Some unresolved tension gets resolved.
Relationships: Hero of Brightwall/Ben Finn
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	Red Coat, Royal Blue

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more to this in the future, but I had this scene in my head and had to just get it out there. Played Fable 3 again for the first time in a long time, and I forgot how much I loved Ben.

It was desert hot inside the room, though Ben knew that outside the night brought something much colder. The Princess had gone out into that bone-chilling darkness, despite the trials she had so recently endured, to understand the plight of Aurora. He should be sleeping, he knew, or watching over Walter, but instead he sat on the stone bench that passed for a bed, staring at the fabric that passed for a door.

How long he had been there didn’t matter. It felt that since he had stumbled onto the shores of Aurora, time had stopped. Truly this was a city of nightmares, and he had only just awoken, but it was difficult to be sure, so long as Adelaide was not _here_.

As if the very thought of her gave her shape and form, she appeared in the doorway. Gone were her dirt-stained, worn highwayman coat and breeches. She was instead dressed in the soft linen dress of their hosts, light bust and brightly colored skirt, as if to ward off the darkness. It was simple; it looked cooler than his uniform; she looked perhaps even more feminine than when Page had dressed her for the masquerade.

“Addie,” he began, too tired to be startled, but too relieved to say nothing.

“Ben,” she replied simply, stepping past the heavy curtain to stand fully in the room. 

Her presence made the room shrink, walls closing in, as if to point to her. He stared stupidly, unsure of what to say. You’re alive. You survived. You frightened me. I shouldn’t care, but I do. 

It was damnably hot. Surely that was the cause for his muddled thinking, his confused silence, as the Princess strode toward him, slow steps, one foot in front of the other - and she wasn’t wearing shoes, either, he noted hazily.

It was too humid to be the desert. He felt a bead of sweat form at his hairline and make a slow, tickling line down the side of his face.

If he were more alert, he would have jumped at the feel of Adelaide’s finger, cool and dry, on his cheek, catching the errant moisture. He licked his lips and looked up. When had she gotten so close to him? If he was of a mind, he could reach out and touch her waist, bunch up that soft, thin fabric in his hand and watch as it shifted over her muscled leg.

The heat was making him addled, he reminded himself silently, even as her finger lingered, became two, three fingers, sliding over the cut of his jaw, tracing the line of his hair. He closed his eyes, breathed in the sensation, the relief.

They said nothing to one another, but he was acutely aware of her legs spreading to straddle him, and so he closed his legs to lessen her burden. She sank onto his lap, and though her fingers were cool, he felt heat from the apex of her thighs through the delicate cloth of the dress.

His eyes were opened, but he didn’t remember opening them. 

Adelaide swam in his vision, hair normally braided and pulled back into a bun was loose, falling over her shoulders that were otherwise bare. He felt his jacket go slack, and his eyes dropped down to see her deft fingers, so often gripping a blade or gun, instead slipping the fine brass buttons through their fastenings until his plain white undershirt was exposed from chest to stomach.

Still no words passed between them, even as her hands travelled up over his front before pushing the shoulders of his uniform away and down. He straightened his arms to allow the offending garment to slide more readily away, bunching around his back, even as he tugged his hands free. 

He dared not touch her, afraid that doing so would see her vanish in his hands, a cruel trick played by the demon that haunted this land.

He was not meant to want this. To want her. She was royalty. She was the product of wealth and comfort, coddled from birth in the safety of a castle, with no true understanding of the plight of those like himself. She was…she was honest and bold, fierce, loyal, and she was beautiful. He was unworthy.

He leaned forward, and he kissed her.

She tasted like sand, like salt, and when his lips pressed firmly against hers, her hands gripped his shoulders, as if to hang onto something solid.

His fingers hurt, and he realized it was because they had moved forward with his fleeting thought and gripped her skirt, bunching the soft cloth at the tops of her thighs.

It grew warmer, as her tongue lapped against his own, retreated and struck again. As her hands, perhaps now secure in the fact that she would not float away, found a new purpose, tugging the hem of his undershirt out from his trousers until it was loose, until they could slide under it and onto his heated skin. He hissed at the contact, and she was merciless, sliding her palms over his belly, up to his chest, white shirt following up over her wrists.

He pulled away and tugged the garment off, over his head and tossed to the side, preening just slightly under her appreciative hum. 

A part of Ben wondered what was happening. Wondered _at_ what was happening and worried about what the morning might bring, but the heat in the room kept that voice quiet, and the Princess’s lips grazing the corner of his lips silenced it. 

She gripped his fingers, brought them to the top of her dress, which sat low on her chest and shoulders. He skimmed over the flesh just above, dipping underneath here and there to test the give of the thing. With a tug, it slipped down, down her chest and arms, catching momentarily on the swell of her breasts until another pull had it sliding down to her hips.

Adelaide had spent the better part of the last year on the move, hiking through Mistpeak Valley, fighting Hollow Men and Hobbes and Bandits, sometimes with a blade, sometimes with a gun. Her skin was soft, if marred with scars from those fights, but beneath it, she was firm, a reminder that she would not break under his hands.

His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts before skirting over the curve of them, flicking over her nipples until they hardened, and he could tease along them until she inhaled sharply against his lips. Her distraction freed him of the spell of kissing her, and he was able to lower his mouth to one of them, appreciating the fullness of her breast with his mouth.

His ministrations were rewarded, as she pressed down, grinding against him through the rough trousers of his uniform.

A thought occurred to him. She had been bare-breasted beneath the dress. Could it be?

He allowed himself the thrill of tracing the shape of her with his entire hand, down her ribs, over the dip of her waist and the swell of her hip, down her thigh, still draped over his own, until he felt skin once more. He dragged the skirt up slowly, in time with the open-mouthed kisses he began to trace from her nipple up her sternum, to her neck.

His fingers reached the dip where her thigh met hip and travelled in, to find that she was bare, too, under the skirt.

He choked against her skin at the confirmation, even as his thumb pressed under her hood to massage her clit, already swollen and ready for his attention. Moisture gathered between her thighs, and he groaned.

She rocked against him slightly, a gentle roll of her hips to direct his thumb over her in the way she chose, a soft pant escaping her that hardened him even further.

With no preamble or warning, her hands were at the buttons of his trousers, undoing them swiftly until they were open enough for her to reach fingers through the opening and pull his erection free. She pulled away from his hand. He would have protested, but she shifted on his lap, lifting her skirt, and…slick heat, hotter and wetter than the desert, and wonderful.

He gripped her hips, gasped against her neck, somehow expecting and not expecting the glorious sensation of pushing past her folds and into her.

He thought he heard her murmur his name - _his_ name - but it had to be his imagination. 

Adelaide’s lips found his again, as she rocked, and he gripped her ass to tug her onto him. They found a rhythm without much fuss, a push and pull that suited them both.

“Ben.”

He heard it that time. He knew it was her, that she was speaking his name, as he drove into her, his pace quickening, and her rocking becoming more insistent all at once.

“Addie,” he responded, returning to that juncture and thumbing her clit once more, “come for me. Please. Please.”

She kissed him, a short thing, followed by another, between gasps of his name, as she pressed against his thumb and against his cock, and he wondered if this was a dream, but then thought he would not be blessed with such a dream here.

He felt the fluttering start inside her, soft at first, then growing into a squeeze that rippled over him, even as she stuttered a relieved groan against his neck before lapping gently at the sweat that rolled down from his jaw.

He was close. 

“Addie, I…”

She nodded against him, changing her movement from a sliding grind to a bounce, and he threw his head back, pleased when she nipped and kissed his neck once more. 

He came with a startled cry, one hand on her hip, maybe to pull her off or maybe to pull her in close, the other wrapped in her hair, as she kissed him again, a deep and slow thing that he could feel pouring through his chest, settling deep in him somewhere that he didn’t want to name.

When she pulled away, he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and he thought of what he might say to her. But no words passed between them, even as he softened inside her.

After some time - it may have been minutes or hours or days, she pulled her dress back up, and he helped her settle it over her breasts once more. She slid off of his lap and bashfully returned his shirt, which he donned with a grin.

Within moments, it would have been difficult for anyone to tell that he had just been inside her, had come inside her, had tasted her kisses and breathed in her whimpers, and he wondered if it really had happened.

And then she caught a rolling drop of sweat on his cheek, and he closed his eyes, and he knew it was true, and he knew that he was utterly ruined.


End file.
